


Locker Room Love

by mysunyourmoon



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9834884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysunyourmoon/pseuds/mysunyourmoon
Summary: Summer vacation has come and Ryan Ross is sure that he would be safe from the incessant bullying of the jocks from his school. That is, until his dad forces him to go to the public pool centre, where it just so happens the jocks occasionally inhabit. Better yet, Ryan's crush on sports star Brendon Urie burns brighter than ever when he catches him glancing his way more than once, leading Ryan to ask himself if he has feelings for him.Brendon is just a boy who is trying to fit in and Ryan just wonders what's going on in his head.





	1. Sports Star Brendon Urie

**Author's Note:**

> This story is being written as a late Christmas present for my friend Julisa so I hope she enjoys it and so do all of you!

**Ryan's Point of View**

The city of Las Vegas is not exactly the go-to place for lakes, especially not the ocean. For many people, swimming is one of the most popular activities to do over summer break because of the heat. Without lakes or oceans smack-dab in the middle of the city, you can see the problem for many people. Someone, some smart investor knew what he or she was doing, because _someone_ decided to build an enormous indoor pool centre that is open year-round. This centre isn’t cheap and dingy either, it’s higher class, maybe a nudge above moderate. Obviously, it isn’t the most luxurious indoor pool place in Las Vegas, but this was created to be accessible, and accessible it was.

My dad, eager to get me out of the house and for me to “be active” for once, bought me a summer membership to the place and forces me out of the house each day. Little does he know, I do not actually swim. Above one of the pools there happens to be an area where people can sit and simply hang out, and that is where I spend my time. Unlike the rest of the centre, this space is not as high grade, mostly because ‘sitting and relaxing’ is not the point. Who pays an obscene price just to sit in a building with a bunch of loud strangers? Me, apparently. 

Currently, I’m sitting at one of the metal tables, the cheap plastic chair making me ache. I wonder to myself if they would let me bring in a pillow or something, but throw the thought out of my mind, deciding it is too stupid a thought. I’m writing, it’s something my counsellor has suggested I do, repeatedly. _Ryan, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. Maybe writing it out will be better?_ I do write it out, it flows out of me in verses and prose, but I do not allow her to read it, which angers her. She doesn’t say it, but I can tell by her clicking her pen a bit faster when I deny. 

Beneath me, there’s an echo of laughter that’s louder than the rest of the noise. I crane my head around, twisting it at an odd angle so I can look over the railing. Across the room, I see that Brendon Urie and all his friends have entered from the showers and change-rooms. I quickly turn myself back around and focus on my notebook, heat rising in my cheeks. 

Despite him being a year younger than me, I have had a large crush on Brendon Urie for some time now. I think it started around a year ago when he first moved here from Utah. We were in the same creative writing class, and we collaborated a lot at the beginning. That is until he joined sports teams and suddenly he wasn’t “Brendon from creative writing”, he was “Sports star - Brendon Urie (mostly called Urie)”. I shouldn’t have been as upset as I was, considering we weren’t really friends, he was just someone I would bounce story and poem ideas off of, and vice versa. Looking back on that time, I decide that I was only upset because I had a crush on him, and because he had seen some of my most private writings. I, Ryan Ross the gayest boy in the school, has a crush on one of the straightest boys I think I’ve ever seen, Brendon Urie, who happens to have had a girlfriend for the last nine months. As far as I’m concerned, his family is Mormon and his girlfriend, senior school president Elizabeth Regis, whom I have gone to school with my whole life, is also Mormon, so it works. 

Brendon Urie lives a perfect life, or so it seems from the outside. The sports star, perfect girlfriend, supportive parents, _straight_ ; the kid seems to have it made. See where I don’t fit in? Me, the little gay boy from a bad part of Vegas, Catholic-raised but abandoned faith when my mom left, a life of mistakes, a life that _is_ a mistake. He’s read some of my poems, my deepest secrets, so I’m sure he knows that I am no good, not that he would need to be associated with me anyway. 

But if that’s true, then why do I turn to peek, eyes finding him once again, only to see him staring right back? When our eyes meet, he smirks a bit. I feel my heart lurch as I look away again, focusing on my writing. Something in me twists, and I think maybe, _maybe_ , he is interested in me, at least as a friend, but that thought is torn away from me when I remember the past we _do_ have together, and it isn’t pretty. 

I hate to be cliché but I am not the popular kid and that instantly makes me a target for the assholes of the school, which as some ancient high school prophecy claims, are the jocks, which includes Brendon Urie. Last year they bullied me ruthlessly, as a general group, but as a single person, Brendon hardly hurt me. For the most part, the pain they caused me was emotional, but people have always said that emotional pain hurts more than physical, and by experience, I would have to agree. 

So, I don’t focus too hard on the fact that Brendon was looking at me, or so I tell myself. In my mind, I repeat the thought that Brendon was simply looking at me because he recognized me from school and that he does not feel any sort of positive feelings for me. In the back of my brain, I hope differently. 

For the rest of my stay at the centre, I cannot help but look out of the corner of my eye at him, noticing how defined his muscles are and how good he looks without his shirt. Distracted by him, I leave the centre in a hurry, almost slipping in the locker room.


	2. Target Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I've decided that I am going to try my hardest to update every Monday, so stay tuned! I hope you like it!

A week passes, and as usual, I spend it observing the swimmers of the pool, trying hard not to completely focus on Brendon, who unusually, has been arriving every day. I say unusually because of my many days sitting up here, I haven’t seen him too often. Most of the week he hasn’t even come with friends, but alone, or with a small child who I don’t think is related to him. On days when he doesn’t come with friends, I have noticed he doesn’t swim. He still wears his swim shorts, though, and instead of swimming, he reclines on one of the many lounge chairs on the side of the pool, also observing. I swear I have caught him looking at me a few times. 

Right now, this is exactly what he is doing: just sitting there, watching. In my peripheral, because I am trying my hardest not to make my obsession obvious, I think I see him looking in my direction. When I turn, I notice that my assumption is right, or I think it is. To counteract my doubt, I see him smirk, just like he had the first time I saw him here, and he waves at me. Hesitantly, I raise my hand in response, awkwardly jerking it to the side in what, I could assume, is a waving motion. 

I lower my head back down to my notebook, where words are finding themselves on the page. It interesting writing in public spaces, as the mind is inspired and influenced by the tones of the situations going on, the sound, and feelings of those around. I have heard people say that real life experiences often make for better writing skills, especially when it comes to writing about experiences similar; it makes it more realistic in a way. 

I try to tell myself that this is the only reason why I come to the pool to write, instead of just saying I am then going somewhere else. I say I come here because I need to draw inspiration from more pleasant things, not from my usual sad, melancholy thoughts. Something in my head says that isn’t true, it says that I’ve only continued to come because I know Brendon shows up. 

Maybe.  
But then again, I don’t want to be predictable.  
So, maybe not. 

Suddenly, there is commotion besides the usual action in the pool. From the side of the room, Brendon’s jock friends enter, pushing and shouting jokingly, causing the lifeguard to shout from her chair. The boys look at each other and back at her before they start whistling at her.

“I’d let you give me CPR,” Brent, the greasiest of the jocks, calls to her. From up here, I can see her shift uneasily in her seat. 

In this moment, I am overwhelmed with disgust. Workplace harassment, especially sexual, was something that I was introduced to at a young age. First, when I was a child my mom worked at a bar downtown before she left. In the early morning after her shift, I often heard her crying to her sister on the phone about the things men have said and the moves they made on her. Even as a child, it didn’t sit right with me. I tried talking to her about it, about as much as my six-year-old mind could understand, but it only made her more upset. One day, a guy went too far. I heard mom tell my dad about what happened and he didn’t seem to care. She quit her job and left us too. 

Eight years later, I got my first job. It was illegal because I wasn’t sixteen yet and they were paying me in cash from the register, but it was a job and I needed to support my dad and me. I was working at a café close to the downtown area, but not as close as the bar where my mom worked. My boss, Harrison would always make passes at me. I stayed for about a year before I decided it wasn’t worth it. 

I think back to these times, both my mom’s experience and my own, and focus on the fact that no one ever said anything. I stand up and lean over the railing next to my seat, toward the direction of Brent. 

“Hey!” I shout, relying on my quick burst of courage to get me through this confrontation. “Don’t say shit like that, that’s disgusting. Do you know how hard she’s worked to get to the position she’s in?” I scan my mind for any memory of what sort of training goes into being a lifeguard, and though I can’t remember much of the specifics, I know it isn’t quick and easy. “Brent, I get that you think you’re some hot shot because you’re on a few sports teams at school, but you have got to realize that sometimes you are not superior. This is one of those times. You have no right to make comments about her like that; she is your superior and deserves respect.”

Brent looks flustered from where he stands on the poolside. He looks around at his friends, searching for some sort of support and I lean back from the railing feeling triumphant. In his lounge chair, Brendon stifles a laugh in his arm. Brent’s head shoots to face him, eyes accusing. 

“You think this is funny Urie?” Brent asks, his whole body now turning to face him. Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, not looking scared by Brent’s attempt at being intimidating. “Whatever, screw you then. As for you Ross, what the fuck do you know about manners? Don’t you know it isn’t polite to ignore everyone at school? It’s like you’re a hermit crab and you only come out of your shell to be a dick.” The lifeguard looks both appreciative for me and nervous because of Brent’s language. I see her begin to whisper things into a walkie-talkie.

I laugh out of disbelief before quickly jogging down the stairs to the pool area. I approach Brent where he stands with his group, a smug look om his face. Brendon is standing with them now, looking unsure of the situation. Nervously, he crosses his arms over his chest again. _It’s a pride thing, a group thing. Stand together or fall alone._

“I’m not polite? As if you can talk _Wilson_ ,” I snap, emphasizing the fact that I referred to him by his last name, as he did with me. “You’re the caveman that doesn’t know basic mannerisms such as saying things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. You also don’t know how to take a shower, but that’s unrelated.”

Before Brent can respond, the lifeguard is tapping him on the shoulder and sending troubled glances between the two of us. 

“My supervisor wanted to tell you two that you must leave for the day. He says this behaviour won’t be tolerated, but he won’t revoke memberships this time.” 

Brent laughs as he gestures for his friends to follow, and I sigh as I go back up the stairs to retrieve my notebook and bag. 

After, I leave the building and start walking down the street in the direction of both my house and the library, unsure of whether or not I should stay out until I usually do. At the first corner, I come across Brent in his friends are standing there, Brent looking livid and Brendon still looking unsure. 

As I approach them, I also become unsure, my confidence and courage from earlier quickly slipping away as I think of the possibilities of what may happen. I tighten my grip on my messenger bag, convincing myself that if I need a weapon, the weight of it may help a bit. 

“You’re lucky that you didn’t get my membership taken away. My dad would’ve been angry, and when my dad is angry, I’m angry,” Brent spits, and I snort. 

“The people of the pool are lucky that they don’t have to endure your horrid scent,” I mumble under my breath, slowing my pace. I see Brendon’s eyes widen a slight bit and a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“Come here, stupid fag,” Brent commands, dropping his bag that, I’m assuming, holds his swim shorts and towel. “You need to know that you need to respect _me_. I deserve respect.” I pause in my place, five feet away from where he stands, terror filling my body. I didn’t consider that Brent is almost double my size and athletic. The only thing I have going for me is my pointy elbows which ideally, I could try to jab him with, but logically I know I wouldn’t have a chance. 

Fight or flight instinct kicks in; I turn to run, but Brent lunges forward and grabs the strap of my bag, pulling me to the ground. I fall onto my back due to the force of his grab and I look up to see him looming above me, a sinister smile on his face. The back of my head begins to ache from hitting the ground, and my lower back hurts from landing on my bag. I let out a shaky breath as Brent places a foot on my chest, holding me down. I move to grab his ankle, but another jock is there, one I don’t recognize, grabbing both my wrists and holding them to the ground. Brent nods to his friends, who immediately begin to kick my body. 

“Brendon, come here, hold him for me,” The unnamed jock requests as Brendon hesitantly comes closer. The harsh grasp of the jock is replaced with the feather-light hands of Brendon. I look up at him, eyes desperately pleading as the jock nudges my shoulder with the toe of his shoe. He looks down at me sadly before turning his gaze to Brent. 

“Don’t you think he’s had enough?” Brendon asks, and I feel his already loose grip get even less tight. “This is fucked up Brent.”

Brent looks even angrier than before. He looks around at the group of boys, then back at me, before taking a step back. He nods in the direction opposite from my house, and the group starts to walk away. Before following them, Brendon helps me up. 

“I’m really sorry Ryan,” he says. I nod, unable to speak. 

I straighten my clothes before limping home.


	3. The Puppeteer Sets the Scene

**Brendon's Point of View**

It’s been a few hours since the guys and I left Ryan Ross standing on that sidewalk by the pool, bruised and hurting. I felt guilty about doing it, about holding him down, letting Brent do it, everything. But at the same time, I know I had to. To fit in, to have friends, I had to. Would Ryan understand that? Would he get why I did it? I pause my thoughts and begin to wonder why I care what Ryan Ross thinks about me. We aren’t friends and I’m sure he’s fine. I don’t have to justify my actions for him.

But I do need to justify my actions for myself. I need to tell myself that I am not a bad person; I stopped it before it got worse. I didn’t laugh at Brent’s stupid jokes, I stayed silent. 

But isn’t staying silent just as bad as laughing along, in its own way?

Frustrated, I grab my pillow off my bed and throw it at the wall. I watch it as it lands on the ground with an “ _oomph_ ” and be the only thing out of place. I look around my room, which is said to be a representation of someone’s personality apparently, and see that everything is organized well and there is no mess. My bed was made before I ruined it, my books are aligned on the bookshelf pressed up against the one wall, and my desk is set up with my laptop and mouse. This would tell a person that I a like everything to be in line and I don’t have time for useless tasks such as cleaning weekly. It would also indicate that I am not creative, as it is said that those who have messy rooms display more artistic and creative capabilities. 

Basically, I’m plain. I’m a guy without substance, I am the product of a stencil traced on paper; my room, good grades, and spots on sports teams could tell a person that. So, unoriginal and bland? Check. Organized? Not exactly. On the surface, my room life seems to be in line, but in my head, is a different story. I’m distraught, I always have been. I’ve never could tell if I have done the right or wrong thing.

Which brings me back to Ryan, which makes me glance distastefully back at the pillow on the ground. With a sigh, I grab it and lazily throw it back on my bed when my phone sounds, alerting me of a text message. 

_Brent: hi dude, meet me @ my house. ill be there in 10._

I inwardly groaned at the thought of seeing Brent after what happened to me because there’s no doubt that he’s going to tell me off somehow. If he does, Brent isn’t very… linguistic I suppose. His worst insults will probably be telling me that I’m in love with Ryan Ross, a “ _faggot_ ”. I shudder at the slur, but an accusation such as that doesn’t seem too bad. I know I’m not, I have a girlfriend. I can handle the insults of Brent Wilson, and I can probably take his punches too if he throws them. Despite he fact that he’s an athlete, he’s not athletic. He’s on the football team because he can decently hold a person back. I’ve been punched by Brent before; I can take it. All he’s got on me is his weight.

I can’t help but think of Ryan as I leave the house, limping his way home alone from the beating of several jocks. His body was so skinny and probably frail, but he hides it under his layers and scarves. I can’t imagine he took it well. 

I begin walking to Brent’s house, which is just under a five-minute walk. The sun is still beating down as it had been earlier in the day, causing me to see mirages on the street in the distance. Somewhere, I hear a dog dark and I silently hope that it isn’t out for a walk, knowing full well that the cement sidewalks would be too hot for its paws. 

I turn on to Brent’s street just as his car pulls into the driveway, an old beat up bug. I remember he threw a fit when he got it for Christmas, claiming it was a woman’s car and not a mans, which he insisted he was. I’m sure his parents didn’t need convincing of that. 

I take a deep breath as I approach the house, desperate to stay civil and in control. I walk up his driveway, oozing newfound confidence that I’m sure will dwindle after this encounter. One thing people don’t know about me is that I am not as confident as I make it seem. 

“Urie, I’m glad you showed up,” Brent says, standing on his porch with his arms crossed. He’s still in his swim shorts from earlier, sun hitting his pale, nude chest. I almost hope he forgot to apply sunscreen, but I know it would be annoying to hear him complain about a sunburn. 

“Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?” I challenge, stopping a few feet away from him, where the driveway meets the path leading to the house. He smirks and shrugs. 

“I was hoping you’d be scared, maybe,” I snort at this, thinking ‘ _Me? Scared of him? As if._ ’ There’s a glint in his eye, one I know too well. He’s got a look on his face, one I know him to use when he is determined to call someone out, to ruin them. “What was up with that fag Ross today, huh? I can’t believe he thought he could try to embarrass me.”

“He sort of did. You got kicked out,” I mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. He rolls his eyes. 

“More importantly,” he clears his fault, shifting his stance so his arms are uncrossed, hands now on his hips. “What was up with you defending him? If I didn’t know better Urie, I would think you liked him. Your little Mormon girl not giving you what you want, Brenny Boy?”

I’m up the stairs of his porch in milliseconds, hands grabbing Brent’s shoulders and shoving him against the rough brick of the house. I’m not bothered that he indirectly accused me of having feelings for Ryan, but I am angry about what he said about Liz. His faces twists, and I know for sure that the brick doesn’t feel good against his bare back. I push him against it with more force. His arms reach up and weakly grab my wrists. 

“Don’t you ever fucking talk about Liz like that,” I snap. He smirks and shrugs his shoulders, then there’s a blur. Using what I assume to be all the strength in his body, Brent pushes back against me and rotates me before pushing me against the wall, next to where I had him pinned. With a firearm across my throat, his pressure increases, beginning to cut off my air. His other hand was slapping away my own when they tried to relieve my throat of the compression. 

“Listen, and listen good. Our school doesn’t like fags like Ryan Ross. He’s a weird emo kid and he makes everyone uncomfortable. I don’t appreciate him making fun of me, understand? All the other guys understand that, so why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours? Your forehead is big enough to be a fucking window, so let the information go and sink in. I don’t like Ryan Ross, which means we all don’t like Ryan Ross. And when he goes against me, we go against him. All of us. That includes you Brendon. You made me look stupid, going against me like you did. I can’t have that again. I may not be football captain, but you aren’t either. I’m sure Zack would agree with me on this one. Man the fuck up and grow some balls. You’re allowed to hit him; he isn’t a girl even though he looks like one. He’s just a little gay boy. Do you understand now?”

I choke and nod my head, lungs aching, needing to cough. 

“Good,” Brent retreats, pulling a box of cigarettes out of the pocket of his swim shorts. “I don’t believe you, but we can arrange a way for you to prove it to me. I’ve got something in mind.”

I wanted to ask ‘ _Or what?_ ’ but I knew the answer. Brent was a lot closer to Zack than I was, and Zack was captain of most of the sports teams. He had the power to convince the coaches to bench me. If I don’t have sports, what do I have? I was a puppet waiting to perform.


End file.
